Fade
by miss skinny love
Summary: The new kid's like a spirit ghosting through the high school. He's pale and serious and far too sad for anyone part of the living. And Aster can't help but watch this teen with the lips that never smile. He can't help but be drawn in by his melancholy and his angry bitterness and his hopelessness. Frost, Aster thinks, needs to get over his demons. AU. Warnings inside!
1. blue and red

fade

a fanfic novelette

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Summary: The new kid's like a spirit ghosting through the high school. He's pale and serious and far too sad for anyone part of the living. And Aster can't help but watch him, this teen with the lips that never smile, and the eyes that never glow. He can't help but be drawn in by his melancholy and his angry bitterness and his hopelessness. Jack Frost, Aster thinks to himself, needs to get over his demons. AU.

 **WARNINGS:** _TRIGGER WARNINGS_ for: self-harm; violence; emotional and physical abuse; sexual abuse references; ( _very_ ) liberal use of swear words; angst; depression; anxiety; suicide mentions/ references; dark themes; bullying; graphic depictions of self-harm/ violence/ emotional outbursts; some slash innuendos. Please do not read if you feel even _slightly_ worried by these warnings. This is, for the most part, a dark fic.

Story NOTE: This is a gen!fic, which means no romance, but I would personally consider it pre-slash. It's also an AU (alternate universe). I do not have a beta/ editor. If you find an error, _please notify me_ so I can fix it pronto (there may be some since the tenses kept tripping me up as I kept switching between writing intervals; I did try to fix it, though). Thank you.

Personal NOTE: I know, I know. I fell off the face of the Earth. I started uni this year and last year was pretty sucky, so yeah. But I'm still here! Some of you may recognise this story. I took it down because I wanted to complete it and edit it and change some stuff, etc - _id est,_ this story is prewritten and complete. I've used it to jumpstart my creative side; it worked. Now I just need to get off my lazy bum and finish the last chapter of JoaWS (which I promise I have started) and figure out where PV ends. It's tough, because my writing has evolved a lot, but I refuse to be that writer that abandons work. P.S: I plan to upload this whole story to Wattpad later on, so if you see it there under the account "hands-over-ears", don't be alarmed. Please inform me if you find it anywhere else, because then it has definitely been stolen.

PLEASE NOTE THE WARNINGS.

Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians nor do I earn monetary profits from this fanfic.

1

blue and red

 _"… And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'_

 _Because that's what it was really all about_

 _And he gave himself an A_

 _and a slash on each damned wrist … "_

 _—_ _Osoanon Nimuss_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Blue and red lights flash outside his window. He turns his head away. He turns his mind away. He doesn't want to see the ambulance as they carry away the body. _The body._ He doesn't want to see the police tromping about as they scribble useless notes in their useless notebooks.

His bed squeaks as he shifts slightly. He looks down. His hands are trembling.

He clenches his jaw.

The hands still.

"Jack? Jack Frost?"

He looks up.

The social worker. Of course.

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"How do you feel today, Jack?" Kind voice. Kind eyes. Kind smile. But without fail, never a touch. Never a hug. Never comfort.

"Fine," he says gruffly, scratching his nail against the material of his chair.

The therapist taps her pen against her notebook. _Useless notebooks._ "Jack, what you've gone through is a lot for you to handle – "

"I handle fine."

Her eyes sharpen; her fingers twitch. Jack suspects she wants to note down _denial – bad coping mechanisms – refuses support – introverted_ but she holds herself back to look him in the eye.

Jack silently applauds her show of restraint.

"Would you tell me how you handle things, Jack?"

He drops his eyes.

"Jack?"

His head snaps up. He glares. Even that fades. Emotions fade. Like time. Like flashing blue-red lights. Like the sound of a gunshot. "How do you think?" he sneers.

"Would you elaborate?"

He mumbles something, then. Something about _understanding_ and _forgiveness_ and _going for walks on moonlit nights._

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"Hey, Jack!"

Jack turns round. "Yes?" he questions warily.

"It's your birthday, right?" the brown-haired boy babbles.

Jack tries to remember the kid's name. Kevin? Carter? Conner? "Yes."

The boy bounces, muddy eyes wide. "Wow! I'm eight," he confides with a pout, then adds, "and three quarters."

As if that somehow makes a difference, Jack thinks.

"But you're fifteen already!" He blushes, then. Horribly. His entire face purples with embarrassment. "I mean – not _already._ You're still young! And new! You only got here last month, right?" He stills. A frown replaces the smile. "But why? Nana Lena says babies are left here 'cause their parents can't care for them. You're not a baby." He squints as if trying to decide if Jack's scrawny form qualifies as a 'baby'. "Where are yours?"

Jack turns and walks away. He doesn't need this. He just wants –

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know what he wants.

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"Jack, honey, come meet Mr. Jode," Nana Lena says, beaming. "He's graciously offered to foster you."

Jack eyes the man. Tall, somewhat podgy. Thinning hair and thinner lips.

Nana Lena bends her head to look him in the eye. He is short; she tall. And Mr. Jode taller still. "What do you say, dearie?" Concern writes itself into existence in her voice and her eyes and even the way she holds her body.

 _Liar._ He scuffs his wrecked shoes and twists the edge of his shirt. It's black. He likes it. _What do you say?_ she'd asked. He says _nonono, please no, I don't wanna go, please-don't-make-me._

Instead, all that he says is, "Whatever."

Another beaming smile. "Wonderful! Now, Mr. Jode, if we could discuss … "

Five weeks later finds Jack back at the orphanage, and Mr. Jode behind bars. And if Jack screams more at night or flinches more or says less or eats less … well, no-one says anything.

And nor does he.

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"Do you know why you're here, Jack?" Kind voice. Kind eyes. Kind smile. Same routine.

"No."

"Can you think of a reason?" the therapist asks patiently.

"No."

A soft sigh. Is he wearing her down? Finally? "Mr. Jode – "

He bolts up without asking and leaves, the door _swooshing_ closed behind him.

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Nana Lena peers down at him as he shovels gruel into his mouth. Her face is pale. Almost as pale as his.

He ignores her and scoffs another spoonful, wanting just to leave, wanting just to go –

 _wanting –_

She slowly sits down next to him. "Jack."

It is early. No-one else is in the kitchen yet. Outside, the grey clouds rumble.

He is nearly done eating. Then he can leave.

"Jack."

Another spoonful.

"Jack." A hand on his arm. He freezes. A _hand_ on his _arm._

Then, a voice that is warbled with age and sincerity: "I'm so sorry, Jack. I didn't know. And I'm worried, Jack. You eat so little, and you disappear for ages – "

But she is speaking to an empty room.

He's already left.

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The wind is howling. He doesn't shiver. His grip tightens on his skateboard, and then loosens as he sets the board at the top of the hill. The road stretches out before him, a veritable black lake against the grey sky.

His feet find their footing, and his left foot gives a push, sending him rolling down the street. The wind screams as he shoots past it, flying down the steep hill with no fear.

With no fear. With nothing.

His clothes plaster against his body, revealing thin legs and thin arms. His lips crack from the lack of moisture.

And there is no-one to witness as he loses his balance and falls forward, slamming into the tar road. No-one to witness his lack of disconcertion. No-one to note his bitter expression.

No-one to wonder why Jack, one of the best skateboarders around, tripped. To wonder why he doesn't seem to mind.

Doesn't seem to mind the scrapes and bumps and –

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"How are you today, Jack?" his therapist asks with little hope.

He ignores her.

"Your father had no right to do what he did, Jack. No parent should ever treat their children like he did you."

He ignores her.

"And Mr. Jode – " she hesitates, then leaves that topic alone. Ah. So she does learn.

"And your father should not have taken – "

He blocks her out. He isn't listening. He hears nothing.

He ignores her.

It is what he's good at.

Ignoring noise. Arguments. Ignoring the smell of alcohol and smoke and –

and –

and –

and semen.

Yes. Even that he can ignore.

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The bulb flickers. Jack pauses, the shaver clutched in his hand. Not that he _has_ anything to shave. But he likes the action of it. He likes the shaving foam. It reminds him of snow and peace and cold winds.

He licks his lips and resumes shaving, mockery that he makes of it.

His eyes are a pale blue, his skin pale, his hair pale.

Everything about him is pale and faded – faded like the sound of a dying gunshot.

In his grip, the shaver shakes. The razor glints.

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	2. dirty fingerprints

2

dirty fingerprints

 _"I am ashamed, little one._

 _Ashamed that I have failed you._

 _Ashamed of my abandonment,_

 _Ashamed to call myself mom."_

 _—_ _Lillian Green_

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He slips the strap of his backpack over his shoulder, absentmindedly glancing over his room. There are multiple beds for multiple boys, each with a story; each with a past. He sighs and rubs a hand against his arm.

Kneeling down beside his bed – he nearly snorts at the concept of it being his – he delves a hand under the bed, groping for a box. From there he removes a single letter, the edges worn and scattered with dirty fingerprints.

And with that he turns and leaves, knowing it to be the last time he slept here or cried here or silently screamed here.

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She is crying. Of course she is.

He doesn't understand why.

"Jack," Nana Lena sniffs, "oh, Jack, I'm going to miss you." Her hair has fallen out of its usual bun, only serving to frame her trembling smile.

He mumbles something that might have resembled _Me too._ Or maybe it was _Yeah._ He isn't sure. He isn't sure of much these days.

Nana Lena is stooping again. It makes him tense, makes him mad that even she is taller. Even _she_ is stronger.

"Now Jack," she says sternly, and that makes him listen. She is hardly ever strict. Not with him. "Tooth is a lovely woman. She's very kind and I hope you can realize just what a wonderful family you two can make."

He turns his face aside so Nana Lena won't see his expression twist into something bitter and hurt and utterly hopeless because – he – he – he can't believe her. He can't believe in anything.

There is a tentative, extremely gentle finger on his chin, slowly tipping his head up. "Jack. You're an amazing boy," – Nana Lena's eyes are painfully compassionate – "but honey, you're still only a boy."

It is with great restraint that all that accompanies her actions is a flinch. He tamps down on it soon enough and prays she can't see the anger in his eyes.

"I'm no child," he responds, pulling himself from her grasp before he does something like punch her. Or maybe scream. He's done both before.

A sigh.

Is everyone sighing?

"Okay, Jack," he hears as he turns to leave. "I only ask, my dear child, that you give her a chance."

That is the problem, though. He has given many chances, but no-one has given him one.

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The house is small, and painted a ridiculous shade of yellow. There is no picket fence and no neatly shorn grass.

"What do you think?" Tooth asks nervously as she pulls the car to a stop.

For a moment he almost asks _Why yellow?,_ but the desire dissipates and he only says, "Nice." When he climbs out, his arms clutch at his backpack. He hunches his back as he stands.

Tooth is quiet as she unlocks the front door. "It's not very big," she says suddenly. "There are only two bedrooms and we'd have to share a bathroom." Hesitating, she asks, "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbles.

She steps inside.

He risks a peak.

She is shorter than him, which he is glad for, with dark caramel skin and brown eyes.

She turns round with a smile. "You coming in? I'll show you your room."

Another mumbled _Yeah._

She had a nice smile.

He still isn't calling her "Mom".

He's had one. He doesn't need another.

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The walls are _blue._ Fuck, is everything painted an obscenely happy color?

"Do you like it?" Tooth asks.

He nods his head, dropping his bulging backpack on the bed-sheet. Which is also blue.

"I picked the color," she admits, following his movements. "I thought it was more you." Her eyes flicker over his black t-shirt.

He ignores her.

He doesn't need blue-painted walls and soft sheets and worried eyes and fucking yellow houses.

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 _The tile was filthy. It had splotches of beer and mud. It was cracked, too._

 _"Jay-boy!" boomed through the house._

 _Jack's head lifted warily. "Yes, Pitch?" Never father. Never dad._

 _A chuckle, rough from drink. "Now, now, is that any way to talk to the man who s-s-sired you?" he slurred, appearing in the kitchen's doorway._

 _Jack leaned the mop against the wall, casually maneuvering himself behind the kitchen table. Away from Pitch._

 _"No, sir. I apologize, sir." He hoped his face was blank. He doubted it._

 _Pitch laughed, tipping his head back. Straight nose, black tresses of hair._

 _Jack hated that Pitch was handsome. This would be easier if he were ugly._

 _This would be easier if his teeth were yellow and he had a beard filled with flecks of food and he had overgrown stubble and knobby fingers and cruel eyes –_

 _But he wasn't. He was handsome. And his fingers were elegant. His eyes warm._

 _It would be easier to hate him –_

 _"'_ I apologize, sir,' _you say, all spiffy like." Pitch's mouth twisted. His eyebrows lowered. "Come here, Jay-boy."_

 _Jack went._

 _His hair was gripped and harshly pulled backwards. "You look so very much like your mother," Pitch said softly. His hold gentled. "She was so very beautiful."_

 _Jack's toes curled. He waited._

 _"I loved her very much, you know," Pitch remarked. He pressed a kiss to Jack's forehead. "But she was a whore. A fucking whore!" he roared, and dealt Jack a stunning blow._

Jack wakes with a gasp. He feels faint. His heart is pounding and his hands are trembling. He clenches his jaw.

The hands still.

He ignores the wetness on his face.

He tries to sleep. He can't. He can't. He feels ill. His stomach rolls.

 _You look so very much like your mother._

He curls up in his bed, arms looping around his legs.

 _She was so very beautiful._

He whimpers and bites his arm.

It isn't working. He bites deeper and the pain lances outwards in a wave – a warm-cold feeling. He feels every indent of his teeth. Feels his muscles complain at the abuse.

Feels his heart slow.

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"And how are you today, Jack?" his therapist asks. She eyes him intently.

"How are _you_ today?" he mutters snidely.

She grins with what might've been amusement. "I am well, thank you for asking." She purses her lips. "You look tired, Jack. Nightmares again?"

He folds his hands in his lap.

She tries again. "How is living with Tooth? It's been a month, yes? Are you settling in well?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

The therapist scribbles something down.

His teeth grind together.

"Are you excited?" She taps her pen against her notebook.

His hands tighten their grip on each other. "For?"

"School," she says easily. "Summer's over. First day tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes," he says belligerently.

She nods her head wisely. "I take it you're not all-too-thrilled."

"Why would I be?" Jack asks, turning his head towards her. "What could possibly be thrilling?"

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"Jack, wake up, honey."

He mumbles and rolls over, hands clutching his pillow, duvet coiled between his legs.

The same voice again, soft and gentle and feminine: "Jack, you'll be late."

"Don't wann', Mom, 'oo early," he cries beneath his breath.

There is a gasp, surprised and pleased.

He is almost asleep when he hears a croon: "Okay, baby, I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

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Fifteen minutes later his ears are burning and he avoids looking at Tooth the entire morning. He'd called her _Mom._ And suddenly he isn't embarrassed, he's angry. He is so, so very angry. She _isn't_ his mom.

His mom had left him and she wasn't coming back. He knew this because he'd read her letter a thousand times, and now he read it once more in a stupid _fucking yellow_ school bus.

 _My Jackie-boy,_

 _You are so small. You are nine years old and you're still so small. You laugh often and freely, like my little angel, my guardian of joy. Everything about you is special and precious. I love you so much._

 _You are so strong. And I am so weak._

 _You see, Jack: I know you think the world is wonderful. And for some it is. For me, though, it is a nightmare. Your father, Jack, is my nightmare. I can't stand this anymore._

 _I can't. I'm so sorry, Jack. I'm leaving. I'm not coming back._

 _Your daddy loves you very much, Jack, but he doesn't love me. He resents me. But you … you he loves._

 _My child, I hope you see one day that though there are nightmares, there are always guardians to guide us._

 _You are my guardian, Jack-heart, but I can't care for you. I have no money. I have nothing._

 _I hope you understand._

 _I love you._

 _Please forgive me._

 _Mommy_

He's not stupid, but somehow he still can't comprehend her words. He reads them, but doesn't understand. "Please forgive me"?

 _Please forgive me,_ he thinks.

 _._

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	3. apples and snowflakes

3

apples and snowflakes

 _" ... Where's the cheek that doth not fade,_

 _Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid_

 _Whose lip mature is ever new ?_

 _Where's the eye, however blue,_

 _Doth not weary ? Where's the face_

 _One would meet in every place ?_

 _Where's the voice, however soft,_

 _One would hear so very oft ? ... "_

 _—_ _John Keats_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Everything is new. Unfamiliar. And that is painful because Jack is used to the achingly familiar. To angry eyes and angry grips and angry tears. And wherever he walks in Spirit High School, he is invisible. The school is too large. The people do not care. He is nobody. Nothing.

He does not mind.

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Aster glares. "This is my seat," he growls out, toeing the stranger's scrawny foot. " _Move._ "

The boy – he judges by the short, pale hair instead of the ridiculously girlish eyes – does not make a sound of protest. He simply stands up, hands clutching a brown rucksack, and slumps in the seat in front of the Australian's desk.

Aster's glare darkens. "You could 'ave apologized," he mutters belligerently.

Thin shoulders ahead of him curl inwards, like their owner is attempting to disappear off the face of the Earth. Aster rolls his eyes. _Bloody drongo._

"Alright, class!" chirps Ms. Moon. "Today … we're learning about personal struggles, and how to develop proper coping mechanisms."

The class groans collectively.

"Now, now, lose that attitude. This is Guidance class, and I am your guide!"

Aster tugs on a strand of shaggy blonde hair and screws up his face in dislike.

"So," Ms. Moon begins, earnestly spreading her hands wide, "there comes a time in life where you begin to feel, overall, less happy. Hobbies you once loved no longer interest you; grades suffer; it is difficult to sleep or perhaps far too easy; you experience weight loss or gain; you are sluggish, fatigued, slowed down. There is a weight in or on your chest." Ms. Moon stops pacing and picks up a thick piece of chalk. "Or perhaps you are angry, and irritable, and feel little to nothing; you wish for isolation. Or you feel _normal_ except … you are not yourself. You are" – she lifts the chalk to the board and begins to write in bold cursive – " _depressed._ "

Someone to the right of Aster snorts loudly.

Ms. Moon's compassionate expression freezes. "Detention, Mr. Summers, for the next month."

Summers splutters. " _What?_ Why?"

Aster turns his face aside in disgust. What an insensitive _prick._

"'Why'?" she tucks a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear. "This is an extremely delicate matter which deserves to be treated with respect and understanding. I will not – so help me God – tolerate _any_ jokes, bullying or cynicism. This is serious. You are nearly grown adults" – she addresses the class, who are now still and somber – "and I expect you to be mature. Please." She turns back to the board and begins to list _support systems: parents – teachers – school councilor – friends – online support groups (e.g. "_ Help is Here _") – trusted members of family – support call systems (e.g. "_ On Call Ur Call _")._

Aster's sharp ears pick up Summers' quiet sneer: "Fuckin' emos."

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Lunch-time. Aster smiles, revealing overly large front teeth. "About time." He slams his locker shut, large, sun-kissed hands lazily gripping a paper lunch-bag.

North laughs and slaps a hand against his shoulder. Aster barely prevents a stumble. "Food iz good, yes!" the Russian-transfer student booms, eyes twinkling with mirth. The jolly eighteen-year-old is decked out in his usual red and is already eating his everyday snack of chocolate-chip cookies.

"North," Aster chides, "you're gonna get sick from all of those cookies. You need to lay off of 'em."

North gives a childish snort that clashes terribly with his 6"2 size. "Cookies are good for soul. They keep me strong!"

Aster is already walking towards the cafeteria, by now familiar to North's usual defense. The Russian boy, body thickened not by fat but by muscle, languidly follows.

"Wait," North calls. "Where iz Sandy?"

Aster sighs and tilts his head up at the ceiling. "North," he moans, "why do ya even need 'im? Your English is good enough to be without your translator for your whole stay, never mind a single day."

North growls something in Russian that Aster simply _knows_ is unkind, but follows steadily nevertheless.

The cafeteria is an ugly thing, all white walls and steel seats that suck the warmth out of a person. Aster's stomach growls in anticipation and he eagerly strides towards his usual seat.

And promptly freezes.

"Now you're just fuckin' messing with me," he deadpans.

The kid sitting _in his damn seat_ lifts his head. Aster idly wonders whether those eyes would classify as blue or grey.

North bounces on the balls of his feet. "Ah," he cries. "Who iz this?" Bushy eyebrows lift as bright blue eyes slant towards Aster. "A friend of yours, Aster?" he drawls in a surprisingly sly voice.

"No," Aster growls, violently dropping his paper lunch-bag on the table. An apple rolls out and stops just shy of the edge of the table. He ignores it.

"I'm sorry," North says with pseudo-innocence, "my English iz bad. _No_ iz 'correct', yes?"

Aster lets out a snarl and orders: "Move."

Once again, in perfect silence, the kid stands up. Empty-handed, he begins to walk in a slumped shuffle away from them.

Aster feels a twinge of guilt. His hand, of its own accord, reaches out and snatches the stray apple. "Hey, mate!" he calls. The mop of white hair jerks in surprise. "Catch!" he says, and swiftly throws the apple. A violent flinch, and then pale, thin hands dart out with startling elegance and catch the apple.

"Eat the apple," Aster orders. "You're as thin as a snowflake an' as pale as one too."

The new kid's eyes narrow with a sharp flash of something Aster can't identify, but then relax, as if he doesn't have the energy to feel angry. "No thanks," the boy says quietly and sets the apple ever-so-gently down on the table. And then he leaves.

"What's wrong with my bloody apple?" Aster questions, offended.

North snorts and grabs the apple himself. He takes a massive bite out of it, and the juice dribbles down his scruffy chin. "I know who iz the apple of _your_ eye."

Aster sighs and rolls his eyes. "Stop being obnoxious."

"Obnoxious but correct, yes?"

"No. And I don't even know 'is name."

"Jack Frost," a voice chimes in to the left of Aster.

Aster gives a startled yelp and falls off the chair he's just relaxed into. "Sandy? What the – "

The short teen grins, the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling mischievously.

 _Fuckin' translators._

 _._

 _._

 _._


	4. body and mind

4

body and mind

" … _the canker'd body hence betrays each fretful motion of the mind_ … "

— William Hazlitt

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It becomes a routine. Wake up. Go to school. Attend classes listlessly. Be cornered by Summers, the kid who thought he was too "emo" and a "white-haired freak". Get beat up. Not care. Clean himself up. Go to Tooth's house (it was not his home). Do homework. Eat. Sleep. Wake.

Today is no different. He supposes that is a blessing, not having to worry if Pitch is in a foul or good mood. Things are the same here. Summers hits are the same.

Lacking half the strength of Jack's father.

"You fucking freak!" Summers spits, stomping on Jack. He curls his body tighter, arms looping defensively around his legs. His eyes are closed. He does not speak. He does not care. This is what he always tells himself. The floor of the bathroom is cool against his cheek, and his nostrils fill with the scent of shit and urine.

Summers is snarling above him, but Jack does not hear. He is looking at a tile, now, stained with dirt and neglect. He remembers another tile, stained with beer. And he is glad that it was tile and not hardwood floors. Expensive flooring for a man of status. Tall. The scent of cologne. The feel of foreign hands pressing against –

When he wakes, he's alone. This is not unusual. Flashbacks. Blacking out. For five minutes he stares at the stained tile, a drop of his blood having joined the dirt. He stretches his arm out, eyeing a piece of torn flesh.

(an inhalation in his ear)

 _oh jack_

He digs his nail into the gash. Pushes.

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"Honey, would you like some more rice?" Tooth asks, hovering above him. Jack is glad Summers is smart enough not to punch his face. That would invite questions. "Honey? Rice?"

He makes an effort to look up. "No thank you," he says quietly, setting down his fork.

Jack can feel Tooth warring with herself. Will she order him to eat his rice? Or will she leave him be? He's almost curious. Not enough to look up again.

"Okay," she whispers. "Would you like me to make you something else, Jack?" Her hands are claws clutching at the rice bowl.

Jack's ribs throb. "No thank you." He raises a fork to his mouth and shovels some rice in. "This is delicious," he says, although he tastes nothing. He suspects his voice is too monotone.

Tooth sits down next to him, her face a picture of concern and misery. Jack lowers his head and eats faster so that he can leave the kitchen.

Leave her concern behind. He is his mother's son, after all.

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"How would you say school is going, Jack?" his therapist asks, clicking her pen. She's wearing pink heels today. He wonders if she's going out. It's Friday, after all. Is there someone at home waiting for her? Is she excited? Does she resent sitting here with him, when she could be at home right now?

He turns his head aside. "Fine."

A pause. "Jack," she says gently, "these sessions cannot help you if you do not speak to me."

She tugs on her skirt. A nervous gesture. Dozens upon dozens of sessions have allowed him to know her perhaps more than she knows him. Is that arrogant? He absently thinks it might be.

"Do you understand that I only want to help, Jack?"

He stares at his hands. Her repetition of his name is a psychological manipulation. She is trying to create intimacy. It will not work. "Yes."

"Good. Did you make any friends today?"

"No."

She pauses again, thoughtful. Jack wonders idly if she is running through a mental list of questions. He decides it doesn't matter. "How are your classes?"

"Fine." Jack pulls on some loose skin surrounding his nail. It starts to bleed. He closes his hand so she won't see.

His therapist nods her head and picks up some papers from the side-table next to her. "We're going to try something new today, okay? I would like you to sit here, please" – she indicates a small table and chair – "and we'll see how it goes."

"What must I do?"

"Draw."

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.

The Apple-Giver is staring again. It is discomfiting. Unnerving. Jack can sense the eyes following him. Tugging his hood over his head, he slinks around the corner, out of the Apple-Giver's line-of-sight, and into the library. Jack messes with the shoulder strap of his bag and selects a seat. Slumping down, he warily eyes the library's doors, wondering if the Apple-Giver would follow him here.

He doesn't.

Some of the tension leaks from Jack's shoulders, and he sighs. He debates working on his homework, but the mere thought of it exhausts him. He closes his eyes, leaning back into the embrace of the chair. Why is the Apple-Giver watching him? Has he done something?

Jack is very nearly asleep when a loud _CRACK_ shocks him awake. He gasps and shoots straight up onto his feet, chest heaving, eyes wide with fright.

" _No_ " – snarls the vicious librarian, lips pulling back to reveal slightly greyed teeth – "sleeping – in – the – library. It's work or out!" She gives another terrifyingly loud _crack_ of her ruler against Jack's table, then stalks away, roaming a dictatorial eye over her territory.

He's still gasping. He staggers up, leaving his bag, and wanders into a dusty aisle of shelves. He doesn't want eyes on him, not when his throat is so closed up, and his chest so pained. Not when he can't _breathe._ He tries to take a breath in, but it isn't enough, and he shudders, his eyes burning, his knees falling out from under him.

He wheezes, fisting his hands, letting his nails dig into the soft skin of his palms. What is _wrong_ with him?

His fingers and toes fill with pins-and-needles, and it's such a curious feeling that he forgets himself, and tries to inhale again, but his mouth and his lungs won't cooperate, and all he can hear is the frantic _puff-puff-puff_ ing as he exhales, and he wonders _How can I exhale when I can't inhale?_ and there are bright spots blooming in his eyes and the world is spinning and his hands are sore from the sharpness of his nails and there are dust mites in the air, swirling like his vision –

 _Calm down,_ he tells himself. _Breathe._ Desperate now, he paws at his arms and pushes deep into the gash made by Summers.

The pain makes him gasp and he clenches his jaw tightly. He takes a breath, still pressing in on the gash, feeling the wetness of his blood and the pain and seeing the redness of it, and slowly the vice on his chest loosens and the panic leaves him, little by little, and ten minutes later he is calmly wiping up his mess and adjusting his black hoody and inside, hidden, as everything is always hidden, terror rages. His body, and not someone else's, had betrayed him.

That had never happened before.

.

.

.


	5. butterflies

5

butterf _lies_

 _"We wear the mask that grins and lies,_

 _It shades our cheeks and hides our eyes –_

 _This debt we pay to human guile;_

 _With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,_

 _And mouth with myriad subtleties."_

— Paul Lawrence

.

.

.

Jack rocks. He weeps. His forehead feels too warm. It's from the crying. He always gets a headache.

He's on the floor. There's snot dribbling over his lips and down his chin. It's clear in color and runs like viscous water. He ignores it.

His throat is sore. It burns, as do his eyes. He clenches them shut and rocks violently forward. He'd looked that up once – the rocking.

It was called "self-soothing".

It wasn't working.

.

.

.

Aster stares. The white-haired kid sits slumped at a table, hands interlocked above his head. It's a defensive pose, Aster realizes. It's the sixth time Aster has seen him at the library, simply sitting. Doing nothing. He frowns, and walks away from the tuft of white hair and the too-large hoodie and the scraggly sneakers.

He has places to be, things to do … unlike some people.

.

.

.

Jack lifts his head from the table with a sigh. The library is nearly closed, and Tooth is waiting. He drags himself up and slings on his backpack. He leaves, trailing his hand along the wall and taking comfort in the coolness of it.

There's no-one left in the halls. Everyone's gone home. He likes it, he thinks: the silence and the fading light.

.

.

.

The days feel like they're getting shorter. It's like Jack doesn't exist: like he's some ghost, passing through the school. And then he wakes up. His _heart_ wakes up, pounding in his chest. His breath wheezes and his eyes screw up tight, and his thoughts become clarity: sharpened by distress and pain and fear. And he's afraid. More afraid than if it were Summers attacking him, or Pitch, or …

Because it's not something he knows. It's not a _person,_ a thing he can avoid.

It's himself.

It's his own body, attacking him. His legs refuse him; his lungs dismiss oxygen; his hands become another's …

And he doesn't know why.

Why his body is turning on him. Why it's making him turn on it.

.

.

.

 _Draw,_ she'd said. But what? What does he draw? Normal people would draw butterflies and sunshine. Yellow things. He almost does, just to spite her, because he knows she'll see right through his pretty pictures and bright blue skies. But then he decides he's too tired to lie in a picture. Reality saps him so. And what does it matter? It's just a picture. Only a drawing. A piece of paper – nothing.

Because paper is for words, and a picture is worth a thousand.

Words, he knows, are useless.

A fallacy.

So he doesn't draw butterflies. Or sunshine. He draws hardwood floors.

He leaves her puzzling.

She knows nothing.

Nothing.

.

.

.

Things are losing order. They'd had a repetition before. A schedule. But now he's lost. He doesn't know where he's going. Everything is around him, suffocating him. When he walks down halls or corridors he feels alone – isolated.

How to describe it.

The feeling.

It is sitting in a bathroom corner, arms clutching legs and tears clutching eyelashes. It's feeling that deep ache in his throat, stinging because he won't make a sound. There is a train coming for him. He is strapped to the tracks. He can't slow the train.

He is afraid.

There is no interaction. He is a catalyst, a non-reactive participant.

Because he's made the train come for him.

He _is_ the train.

He'd done this.

.

.

.

"It's riveting, Jack," she comments, brushing some hair back from her face.

What a liar, he thinks. It's pathetic. He has no artistic skill and even less imagination. He wonders where she learned to lie. Her parents? Her friends? He knows why she bothers. She's paid to. But why would she care? (Did she care?) He honestly can't fathom why. What would it matter to her if he didn't breathe tomorrow? She'd still have her pink heels and Friday nights. She'd still have her stupid little office with its too-plushy chairs and the annoying stain in the corner.

So what the fuck did it matter to her whether some teenager killed himself or not? Did it give her a sense of purpose, a distraction? From what? He thinks he knows. Pink heels and Friday nights. Is this it? Is this all there ever is?

He looks at his drawing. It's a black hole. And he thinks:

Yes. This is it.

.

.

.

"I invited a colleague of mine over for dinner," Tooth says. She is watching him again. He has to be her favorite hobby. No-one should watch someone that closely.

He shuffles some geometry homework so he doesn't have to look at her. "Today?"

She inches closer, sitting adjacent to him in the small lounge. Peripherally, he sees her tracing circles with her fingertips on the cushion. "No. Thursday evening. Would that be alright? She'd love to meet you. It'll just be the three of us."

He peeks at her. She looks stressed. "It's fine."

She continues, "Her name is Tracy. She works with me at the dentist's office." Again, she hesitates. "She's forty-three and has two kids. Step-children." She shakes her head a little. "But they're as good as hers. I think they go to school with you."

Jack pauses in sharpening his HB pencil. He ignores the implied question. "I didn't ask you," he says. It comes out sounding more uncertain than he'd like.

She catches his eye. "I know," she says levelly. "But I want you to know." There is a beat of silence where he twiddles with his pencil and she absently inspects one of the sums spread out on the coffee table. He is momentarily embarrassed by his near-indecipherable handwriting but he dismisses the fleeting emotion harshly.

"Okay?"

He swallows. "Okay."

.

.

.

Jack only saw his father crying once.

 _His father's cheeks looked soft and worn, the way aged people's skin turns paper-thin. Pitch's eyes are red, and too bright. His mouth keeps pulling down at the edges._

 _"_ _This is the worst day of my life, Jack," he said to his son, looking down again and hiding that vulnerable look on his face._

 _Jack's glad._

 _It seems deeply, unfathomably and inexcusably wrong for an adult to cry, and he doesn't know why._

 _His mother left, and did this. His mother made his father cry._

 _He feels sick._

 _Please stop crying._

Jack's father never cries again. Instead of sadness, Pitch uses anger.

Did he wish this anger into existence? And sometimes he's glad he sees his raging father and not that vulnerable man on the stoop.

Because that man's pain felt so personal and so intense that Jack felt guilty and fragile and strangely high up, like he was in space, watching stars combust in a brilliant display of utter destruction.

.

.

.

Sometimes, what happens to his father makes sense, if he only recalls that vulnerability.

.

.

.

 _"_ _Our Lord, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, now and forever. Amen."_

Jack keeps his eyes open throughout the prayer, watching the faces of the women at the table. Their clasped hands, almost white-knuckled. Their eyes, squeezed shut. Their expression. He feels like an observer, watching, but not interacting.

When the prayer is over, _Amen_ spilling from their lips, he picks up his cutlery and begins to eat, aware of Tooth's eyes on him but almost too tired to care about what she saw – the shadows beneath his eyes and the way in which his skin clung to his bones.

"This Spaghetti Bolognese is delicious," Tracy comments, delicately swiping her mouth with a napkin.

Tooth flushes. "Thank you," she says, expertly rolling pasta on her fork.

"So you're Jack." Tracy smiled widely. "Tooth talks about you all the time, did you know?"

 _I do now,_ he thinks. The suspicion creeps in quickly. The question bursts from his mouth, and he is almost surprised. He doesn't expect to care. "What does she say?"

Tooth, opposite him, smiles thinly. "Boasting, really."  
Sagely, Tracy nods. "Yes, definitely. _Jack is so thoughtful – he always makes his bed. He even does the dishes and the laundry, did you know? Without asking."_ The woman grins. "If only my own kids were as considerate. Goodness, the mess," she sighs, shaking her head and taking a conservative sip of her water.

Tooth laughs. "I do not sound like that."

Jack ducks his head, feeling a flash of guilt. He doesn't wash her dirty dishes or clothes. Only his own. And it isn't – it isn't out of kindness. He doesn't want Tooth cleaning his plate or folding his laundry or carefully tucking his sheets under the edge of his mattress. He doesn't want lavender-scented blue sheets.

" … remember Charlie? He choked on his coffee the first time you mentioned him. 'Darling, you're so young,' he said. Remember?" Tracy chortles. " _'A fifteen-year-old?'_ "

"It was pretty funny," Tooth admits, slyly pushing the salad bowl towards Jack.

The table falls silent as they focus on their food. Jack eats slowly. He isn't hungry, though Tooth had put effort into the meal, and it showed.

"So Jack," – Tracy begins, dabbing her mouth clean of sauce – "how is school?"

He swallows his mouthful. "It's fine," he says.

Tracy nods her head again. She's making that face she'd made earlier, when Tooth said she boasted of him. Like she knows something, like she's wise and ready to deal out advice. Her mouth lifts up, and smooshes closer to her nose, and she subtly nods her head. "You know, my son is in your grade. I know a new school is difficult – I myself moved around a lot – and if you'd like, he can watch out for you. Just keep an eye on you, really – or not, it's entirely up to you," she says sincerely.

"I'm good," he says quietly. His shoulders curl. He wishes Tooth would stop looking at him. Perhaps she senses his unease, because she speaks, shifting her gaze to Tracy. "Thank you, that was a kind offer."  
"Oh no, not at all!" she says, flapping her hand dismissively. "I just know that his life before you wasn't all that good, and I'd like to help, in any way that I can – "

Jack isn't listening anymore. "'Wasn't all that good'?" he quotes softly, and raises his eyes to Tooth's. Hers are wide open, the brown in them pale under the unhealthy white glow of the kitchen lights.

Tracy is still talking, her mouth smooshing against her nose, the corner of her eyes crinkling, and her warm hand gently touching his arm.

He jerks away, his fork cluttering onto the table. Standing, he stiffly shoves his hands into his hoody's pocket, and through sheer will alone plasters a polite smile on his face. This is his payment to Tooth. The perfect guest. Well-mannered, practically a ghost. Invisible. "Thank you for dinner. Please excuse me."

Tracy blinks. "Wh – "

He's gone.

.

.

.


	6. heartbeat(en)

6

heartbeat(en)

 _"_ _She had tricked him._

 _She had made him leave his old self behind_

 _and come into her world,_

 _and then before he was really at home in it_

 _but too late to go back,_

 _she had left him stranded there –_

 _like an astronaut wandering about on the moon._

 _Alone."_

— Katherine Patterson ("Bridge to Terabithia")

 _._

 _._

 _._

The road is lit up by the soft glow of streetlights, and he idly scratches his fingernail against his skateboard. Kicking his legs out before him, he rests his head against the pavement, carefully tucking his limbs out of the way of the street. The grass centimeters away tickles his hand as he pulls it in tufts from the ground.

He doesn't listen to the soft whoosh of the Autumn wind, whistling through the branches. He doesn't listen to the subtle shifts in the brush, or the far-off calls of people as they chatter, or the sound of Tooth approaching. No. He listens to the beat of his heart.

It's a strange sound. He appreciates it more than his face, than his fingers, than his eyes or his mouth. There's something about his heartbeat. Something enthralling. It's measured, and constant, and startling.

When he listens to his heart, he realizes that he's human, and he can treat himself as a stranger, and it's relieving, because then he can treat himself kindly. He can whisper to himself _Shh, everything's all right. Don't worry. Just breathe._ He can do this without guilt, without debating what a fuck-up he is. How he doesn't deserve kindness.

Just … breathe.

God, he loves his heartbeat. In its beats, it tells him _I am here with you; we are in this together._ In its beats, he marvels: I am alive.

"Jack?" Tooth calls softly, crouching down by his head, her eyes dark with concern – or maybe they're just dark because it's night.

He thinks about answering her. He really does. But the very thought is exhausting – having to open his mouth, having to move his vocal chords. The very thought is agonizing, because his throat is so swollen with something awfully close to betrayal, and that's so _fucking stupid,_ isn't it, but that's what he is: he's so _fucking stupid._

His eyes feel full, like they've grown, but he has enough intelligence to know that it's only because he wants to cry, and that will not happen; the tears will not fall, because to cry in front of her is to lose control, and to lose control is to be vulnerable.  
 _("Why are you crying, Jay-boy? There's nothing to cry about. You're doing it again. Now I feel like a dick for making you cry. You always do this. Now I look like the bad guy.")_

So. He keeps his eyes open wide, and thinks fiercely, _Dry. Strength. Control._ Except it doesn't quite work because the corners of his lips keep trying to pull down, and his chin is trembling very slightly, and his heart is a little less betrayed, and a little more angry. _Go on,_ some part of him thinks, and it realizes something sickening. _Hurt me,_ his mind whispers.

"Jack … I didn't mean – " she begins slowly.

He smiles a little. "I know what you meant. You meant you had a ward. You meant to talk about his life to your friends, so you could all discuss poor Jack Frost. So you could all empathize together about him, about how he suffered, about how you took him in and gave him a better life and _you're so kind_ – so kind, Tooth, to have taken me in – "

He's not really making sense. The words are sort of rushing together, and his voice has a bit of a cruel, mocking edge that he hasn't heard coming from himself, but his father, so he cuts off, sealing his lips. This slight emulation of Pitch is painfully obvious to him.

"Jack. No," Tooth says, and her fingers are in his hair and he wants to move away from her because he doesn't want her touching him, doesn't want her affection, not when he's so angry, so angry, so angry.

He gets up, shuffling away from her.

She's speaking, rapidly. "When I was eight years old our teacher gave us an assignment. We were to draw what we wanted to be when we grew up. The boy next to me drew an astronaut. That's what most of them did – not drawing astronauts, of course, but drawing ambitious dreams."

"Tooth – " he begins.

She holds up a hand and continues. "I didn't know what to draw. No, listen to me, Jack," she says fiercely, so he does. "Mind scrambling, I drew me holding a baby. I wanted to be a _Mommy,_ I said." She gives an indelicate little snort that has him rocking backwards, unsure. "Six years later I was told I would never have children. I know it sounds stupid – to – to have a dream that wasn't even yours, because you just picked it up like it was a piece of paper on the ground, and then be told you can't keep it, even if it wasn't really a dream so much as how you envisioned the future – I mean, I had other dreams – I wanted to travel, to run a marathon, for god's sake –

and then you were there. Nana Lena is my cousin, twice removed, you know, and she was saying all these things about your mother – "

He screws his eyes shut and bites down on his tongue so hard that he can almost taste copper.

" – how she left and you had no-one and then I was thinking that your dream of a family was just torn up, just a piece of paper – "

 _(A letter from his mother, covered in dirty fingerprints.)_

" – and how you'd lost your mother, and I'd lost a child that would never be, so I thought _fuck it_ because I never say fuck it, and I offered to foster you, even though I'm broke" – she laughs a little hysterically – "and I don't know anything about parenting and you were just – just … " – she waves her hands in his direction – "sad. You were sad and suffering, and therapy doesn't seem to help you, and you don't want to eat and you're always out and you make your bed – _you make your bed, Jack –_ what kind of teenager makes their bed if they're not – if they don't think of the house – of me – as home?"

He stares at her, and her mouth is opening again, and she's speaking again, and he's never heard someone speak so much, all at once.

"I know it's unfair of me to expect you to just accept me and this new life so easily." She wrings her hands slowly. "But I just – I needed to talk to someone, can you see that? Because when I'm upset, I talk, and when you're upset … " – she looks at him gently – "you don't. And Tracy is an idiot," she says, shaking her head, and he sees the anger in her eyes for the first time, "but she's a sweet idiot, so I spoke to her, and I told her – well – a little about you, and how I wanted to be your mother; how I wanted to adopt you."

 _I wanted to adopt you._ The night doesn't become quiet with this revelation. It becomes deafening. It's so loud. _This_ , he thinks quite clearly, _is a different kind of pain_ , and hadn't he realized he wanted her to hurt him?

Her hands are on his cheeks, and he realizes only then that he'd been crying.

"Shh," she says, "I'm here."

He hates her kindness.

.

.

.


	7. self-control

7

self-control

"Balance is not something you find,

It's something you create."

— Jana Kingsford

.

.

.

He avoids her in the morning. He feels strange. Something like anger, something like sadness, something like pain broils in his chest. She's not his mother. His mother left him – left him with a man like Pitch. A large part of him doesn't want a mother at all. The remainder … well, he lives in a democratic society – does he not? – so the majority gets the vote. What's it matter what she wants, when all his life it's been about what everyone else wants? Isn't it about time that he gets what _he_ wants? That's only fair.

 _Only fair,_ he snorts. God, what a fucking idiot. The world isn't fair. The world is a place – a planet – filled with people who are greedy. Even their love is greedy – they want it like they want attention: to validate themselves. _Kindness …_ He is ashamed he is surprised by it. He needn't be. It's _selfish._  
Nana Lena was kind to him because she felt indebted to him. She was trying to fix her mistakes. Tooth is kind to him because she wants to fulfill some twisted desire to be something after the realization that – well – she couldn't be anything else. She wasn't _smart enough;_ wasn't beautiful enough; wasn't engaging or compelling enough to be a scientist or a model or a politician. She would only ever be Tooth, he thinks nastily, because if he thinks of her as Tooth-my-possibly-adoptive-mother, he might just hit her, because violence sometimes feels like all he knows.  
The women in his life have always disappointed him.

And he doesn't need another disappointment; he doesn't need yellow or blue or someone who teaches him that love can be selfless.

Because at the end of the day, all he'll ever have is himself, and he's nothing. There is nothing. There are only black hoodies and black days and red stains on his clothes and the deep satisfaction of a bruise and the pain of a kick that can't supersede the pain in his _fucking mind_ and the scent of piss and shit and semen –

"Jack?" Tooth asks tenderly, holding out hands clutching a cereal bowl. She brought him cereal, because she didn't want him to go hungry. He freezes on the porch at the thought, and raises his eyes to hers, and maybe she sees something in his face, because her small grin dies a little. Something in him dies alongside it. He can't – he can't do this – he just –

So he doesn't. "Fuck off," he says, breathily.

She hasn't done anything to deserve this.

Still. He runs.

His mother taught him well.

 _"_ _JACK!"_

He can't. Not anymore.

He won't.

.

.

.

When Aster wakes in the morning, it's cold. He swears good-naturedly, and tugs on some clothes as he idly shuffles to the kitchen. His stepmother is already there, unpacking the dishwasher.  
"Morning, Aster," she greets with a smile. "Your sister still sleeping?"

He grunts an affirmative as he drags out a cereal bowl, spoon, milk, and some Cheerios.

"I'd like it if you used your words, Aster," she says levelly. "I didn't marry one Australian man to get the silent treatment from _two_ Australian men."

He rolls his eyes a little. "Yes, Tracy, my sister's still sleepin', 'cause she's a _lazy_ demon _._ "

His stepmother sighs and flicks the kettle on. "You're a rude little bastard in the morning if you haven't had some coffee. What did I tell you to call me?"

He makes a face at her over his cereal bowl, but then his eyes crinkle with fondness. "Mum."

She beams. "Mum!" she agrees.

"Mum?!" Aster's sister roars from upstairs. _"Where's my favorite skirt?_ Mum?"

Tracy's face falls a little. "Mum," she says dejectedly.

.

.

.

"I would say good morning," she begins, "but I'm afraid to say it is anything but. I'm Officer Faerry, and I'll be one of the main coordinators of the search. We are looking for Jack Frost. He's a Caucasian male, and fifteen years old, with very light blond hair which appears almost – erm – 'white', and blue eyes" – the officer squints at her notepad – "which – and I quote – _look sad but still kind."_ She raises her eyes to glance over the assembled people. "Erm. Yeah. Okay. So" – she fumbles through some paper set on a small table beside her – "this is his photo." She holds it up for the perusal of the crowd, and then grabs a whole pile of photos and shoves it into a civilian's hands with the quiet order to distribute them.

She raises her voice, as the people before her are muttering between themselves as they study Frost's picture. ("So young," sighs a father with a receding hairline.) "Jack Frost," she calls, "was last seen at his home in Burgess, Overland Street. He ran away from there about one and a half hours ago. His foster parent immediately notified us, of course, as one should in an emergency – erm – so" – she breaks off, clearly nervous – "thank you all for volunteering your help. Those assigned to Group A will search the designated quadrant one; those in Group B will search quadrant two; Group C will search quadrant three, and Group D will comb quadrant four. Please listen to your quadrant leaders so we don't search places multiple times. The key is efficiency. "

There are nods as people begin to shuffle in agitation, clearly ready to start.

A woman parts from a group of police officers, her eyes wide and white-knuckled despite her dark skin. Her boots crush the snow of the school lawn as she faces the volunteers. "He's still a child," Tooth says, "and it's freezing – the weather forecast predicts a cold front to hit by midday. We have to find him before that." Her mouth turns down and her eyelashes flutter like little fairy wings. "Please. This is … this is a nightmare."

Officer Faerry's lips press together. "This can easily become tragedy," she agrees. "If you find him, immediately call your quadrant leader. They will take it from there," she explains, and then calls: "Disperse!"

The crowd does so like trained dogs scenting blood in the wind.

.

.

.

Jack Frost, a runaway, Aster muses, shuffling from where he stands next to Tracy. To think – this morning he was arguing with his sister over bathroom privileges, and now he'd somehow been roped into a search of the whole of Burgess on what was possibly one of the coldest days of his life.

Fuck. If he found that Snowflake before anyone else, he was going to give that kid a piece of his mind. _I have places to be, things to do … unlike some people,_ he thinks, echoing his thoughts from that day in the library.

That Frost kid was just trouble wrapped in dejection. Aster crumples the photo he'd been handed. He knows what the dingo looks like.

"Disperse!" the officer calls.

With a sigh, he disperses. Jesus. Some days he feels like all he ever does is hop around like an energetic rabbit. It's too cold for this.

When is spring coming? he wonders mournfully.

.

.

.

When there is the crunch of boots on snow, he raises his head.

"Frost," Aster snarls at him. "Do you 'ave any idea the trouble you've caused? Practically everyone is looking for you."

Of course, Jack thinks. "I didn't ask them to."  
The other boy stares at him. He looks honestly surprised, for a moment. Then he blinks languidly. "Fuck me dead. What kind of excuse is that?" he breathes.

Jack is taken off-guard. He hesitates.

Aster pounces. "You're sittin' here, moping in the snow. You take off without a word, your" – he waves a hand – "whatever is losing her mind from worry. I have to walk around on one of the coldest days of the year to find you, and here you are, and your excuse is _you didn't ask people to look for you?_ Can you clap? Then clap a cow's cunt on your head and hope a bull comes along and roots some sense into ya."

The simmering anger that he's been slowly breathing through swells. And bursts. "You know what?" Jack says, climbing to his feet. "I'm sick of you. I'm sick of you throwing me out of your seat or throwing apples at me or throwing your asshole attitude at me. You don't know who I am. Whatever you tell yourself" – his voice rises – "no-one made you search for me. You _chose_ to do that. And I don't need a fucking excuse" – he thunders (god, it feels good) – "because I don't owe anything to anyone, not even _her!"_

"Oh, really?" Aster mocks. "From what I know, she took you in and fed your ungrateful ass, and now you repay her by running away like a coward, because that's what cowards do, they run away –"

Before he understands what he's doing, he's leapt. His fist smacks into Aster's sneering face. The Australian looks more surprised than he does hurt as he grazes his fingertips over the quickly reddening skin of his cheek.

"You know nothing" – Jack spits out – "about cowards _who run away,_ about cowards who leave and never look back and think about the things – about the people – they leave behind. You know nothing." Jack retreats, stumbling backwards a bit over the snow, away from this man that makes him feel like – like his father.

"Oh?" Aster mocks. "Is that what you tell yourself? Poor Jack Frost, the boy nobody can understand. Poor Jack – he's had such a difficult life. Poor you," he spits, his lips pulling back, "no-one cares about you; you never do anything wrong; the world is forever against you. Is that what you tell yourself? That you're special? Who hurt you, dear child?" he laughs with dark amusement.

Jack twitches, his hands fisting.

"Was it daddy?" His intelligent eyes pin Jack down. "Was it mummy?" Realization dawns the longer he looks at Jack. "Was it _both?"_

He feels dizzy. His toes and fingers are full of pins-and-needles. He can't quite breathe right. And his head feels high, but he's never done drugs. Abruptly, he's over this. He's over Aster. He sucks in a breath so quickly and deeply that his teeth sting from the cold. "So what," he states spitefully. "My mummy ran off and my daddy beat me up each night because I was beautiful just like his whoring wife. And then he shot himself because he couldn't handle my ungrateful, coward ass, right, Aster? That _must_ be why. And then my ass," he laughs bitterly. "Well, it got me in trouble so many times; what was one more time with Mr. Jode? And then my foster parent tells me she wants to be my new mummy, because god knows I need another parent to fuck me over again" – his voice is animated with false cheer – "so that I never forget how ungrateful I really am. Isn't that right, Aster?" he entreats, even dropping to his knees and raising his arms high in supplication. He steadfastly ignores the razor-sharp edge of desperation in his tone.

"Get up," Aster says roughly.

"I wouldn't want to act above my station," he coos, with that sickeningly open and subservient expression on his face.

"Get up," Aster says again, clearly unsettled.

"But sir," he says, "if I'm on my knees, all the easier for you to hit me. Go on. Hit me."

Aster stares at him. "Do you really want me to?" he asks eventually.

"Yes," Jack says readily. _Please. Just hit me so I can hate you, too. So that I can hate myself. So I can hate the world. Hurt me._

A fist swings towards him. He doesn't blink. It pauses inches away from impact.

"You need to somehow stop being so angry. If you don't, it will eat you up inside, and eventually, you won't be able to hold it in," Aster says, eyes flashing. "And then you'll be both you dad and your mother: abuser and victim to yourself and eventually others, until one day you can't take it anymore, and you run away, or shoot yourself, and all anyone will ever remember of you is that you couldn't defeat your nightmares, and they'll sigh with pity, Jack. So get up; get over yourself and your past, and _get it out_."

The fist turns into an open palm. He grabs it more out of shame than appreciation. It pulls him up.

For some god-awful reason, it pulls him out, too.

.

.

.


	8. the pen is mightier

8

the pen is mightier

 _"_ _I demolish my bridges behind me …_

 _Then there is no choice_

 _But to move forward."_

— Fridtjof Nansen

 _._

.

.

"Get it out". Fine.

It takes him months upon months to start "getting it out". But he does. Slowly. So he writes to his therapist first, of all people, since she prefers words, and since letters seem to be his family's legacy –

 _Ms Bennett_

 _I apologize in advance for this letter. And yet I will still give it to you._

 _Stop thinking that I was broken when I came to you. Stop thinking that I was your patient. Stop seeing me as a young boy who was struggling with life, with you there to guide my way. Stop believing you understood me; that somehow you knew better. Stop speaking softly and tugging at your skirt and never touching me. I know it was only professional behavior, but really, all you did was isolate me more. All you ever did was reinforce the fact that you were a doctor, and I the sick one._

 _But I was so much more than that. I was a person who was more than what ailed me. Than what ails me still. I was happy despite my sadness – not that you saw that. I was happy when I slept in my warm bed. I was happy when I took a shower after a long day. I was happy at times. But I was sad, yes._

 _I don't know what exactly I'm trying to say.  
I guess I'm saying I wished you had hugged me. I guess I'm saying I wish you had shown me your true face. You wore a mask of professionalism like you were supposed to, but you never broke down my barriers and actually cared. You smiled politely and asked the right questions, but you never actually listened. I spoke to you the only way I knew how. _

_I wish you had shown me emotion so I could have shown you mine. I wish you had fucking truly cared. All I can think about sometimes are your pink heels. Your Friday nights when I was skating down the road, the wind screeching in my ears. You got to go home. You got to dismiss me from your mind.  
And I'm sorry – I'm so sorry – because you never did anything wrong. You were the perfect medium, but that's not what I wanted. How could I, when all my life it was my raging father, or my absent mother, or the compassion of Tooth? All I'd ever known was emotion. I didn't know how to balance myself. I didn't need neutrality. I didn't need parameters or controlled environments or clinical "How are yous". I needed you to lean forward, to look me in the eye, to touch me – goddamnit, I needed comfort – even though I rebelled against it so vehemently. I just needed …_

 _I needed …_

 _I have this daydream:_ 'Your eyes are brown. Intense. The glasses do nothing to hide that.

I can't look away. You grip my hands, and when you speak you are all I hear.

"You are so brave."'

 _I am so selfish._

 _I hope there is more for you than Friday nights, than pink heels, than endless patients, than frustration at all the sickness of the world._

 _But remember: I am more than my sickness. I am the antidote, too._

 _So fuck you._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Jack_

 _P.S: I hope I never see you again._

And to his dead father, these simple words –

 _In your grave your body will rot. Your skin will decay. You will be eaten by maggots and bugs and the shit you only dreamed of. You will never hit me again. You will never shout at me again. You will never do anything to me ever again._

 _I entertained the thought of doing this – I even wrote it down a couple times – "But every year, on your birthday, I will go to your grave after drinking lots of water and eating a massive bowl of chili, and I will piss and shit on top of your resting place. This is a promise, oh father dear."_

 _But then I thought that you don't even deserve that. You deserve nothing from me._

 _Because that's what you are to me. All you will ever be._

 _Nothing._ That _is my promise to you._

It's not a nice letter. _Fuck_ forgiveness.

He leaves it at Pitch's headstone.

To his mother (who will never receive it; it is "the thought that counts", he's been told) –

 _You were my mother once. But only once._

To Mr. Jode, who is in prison and reads the letter in the solitude of his cell in disbelief and bafflement –

 _You should wash your hardwood floors. But you will never taste freedom again. What you have taken from me, you have taken from yourself, too._

To Summers –

He uses his hands not to write but to hit. His father taught him something of use after all. He will not subject himself to anyone's whims but his own.

And to Tooth –

He writes no letter. He sits down at the kitchen table, and accepts the bowl of cereal she offers him with a quiet "Thank you, Mom".

Her smile is not more blinding than the anger he still feels sometimes. But it's close.

.

.

.


	9. epilogue

epilogue

 _"_ _For be comes, the human child,_

 _To the waters and the wild_

 _With a faery, hand in hand,_

 _from a world more full of weeping than you_

 _can understand._ "

— William Butler Yeats ("The Stolen Child")

 _._

.

.

(four years and twenty-four days later)

.

.

.

Jack looks down at his forearm as the artist swipes a cloth that is wet with something that reeks of antiseptic ointment over his new tattoo. He sucks a breath in as he reads the ink:

 _the woods are lovely, dark & deep._

 _but I have promises to keep, & miles to go before I sleep. (r.f.)_

Tooth smiles at him, waving her little camera in excitement.

His friends – North and Sandy – give him a thumbs-up and giggle like the girls he knows they are. He's so happy they moved here permanently. So happy they stayed. That for once people stayed. ("Iz cold in Russia," North had said with a shrug. "Iz better here, yes?")

Aster does not smile. He doesn't make jokes or laugh or giggle. What he does is raise his eyes to Jack's, and whisper more than a little menacingly in his ear: _"You better not break those promises."_ Then he relaxes, his arm winding so gently around Jack's shoulders that he knows no matter how much the Australian may bark, he will never bite.

These people are his memories, his wonder, his hope, his dreams. They are the guardians of all that makes him happy – that makes him actually feel joy. They chase away the nightmares of the past.

He is not his father.

But nor is he his mother.

And his tattoo? It's bold, and easy to read, and permanent. So permanent that his fear is overcome by his relief.

His tattoo consists of the black-lettered quote highlighted by the sun inked behind them.

The _fucking yellow_ sun.

(and he's not happy all the time. sometimes he's so sad and so guilty and so disgusted with himself that he feels itchy inside – so itchy – and he wants to scratch that itch but he can't find it. sometimes he's so panicked and anxious and scared that he mocks himself with dark enthusiasm for thinking happiness could ever exist. sometimes he's so angry that all he wants to do is bite down and taste copper. and he does, at times – bite and scratch and hit. sometimes he's so desperate for a gasp of fresh air that he shoves his head too far out a window because it feels like the only thing he can smell is – is –

but that's not the point. the point is that he is not his father, but nor is he his mother.

and he wears blue hoodies more often than he does black ones, and he has a yellow tattoo. that's the point. that's the fucking goddamn point, alright?)

Alright.

What a ragingly beautiful word.


End file.
